


An Open Door

by mightbeanasshole



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 23:56:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6305443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbeanasshole/pseuds/mightbeanasshole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nacho turns to Jimmy when he needs above-the-table legal help. While they navigate the best way to keep his father in business, Nacho tries to piece together the things he's learning about the lawyer -- but Jimmy McGill has been playing his cards closer to his chest than Nacho ever anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Open Door

He eyes Jimmy as the man pushes through the diner door, scanning the faces there, looking for Nacho. His posture and the deep lines of his frown give away his exhaustion, but his shirt is pressed crisp. He doesn’t see Nacho at first -- and that’s good because Nacho likes to watch Jimmy.

Jimmy looks at faces when he walks in -- slinging a fake smile at a hostess who tries to seat him and walking past, surveying the booths. He still looks at faces instead of finding exits first because Jimmy doesn’t act like a criminal. Yet. 

When he finally spots Nacho, he grimaces. Just a micro-expression, and nothing that someone else would probably notice. But Nacho has experience reading people and Jimmy is a beginner when it comes to fitting the mask over his face to stay put. The grimace flickers and dies, replaced by a too-big smile as Jimmy slides into the booth.

“Nacho, Ignacio, good morning,” Jimmy says, too enthusiastic to be anything but nervous. 

Nacho lets him sit with the silence because this is what he does. Jimmy keeps his hands above the table, steepling his fingers and raising his eyebrows. He wets his lips and plots a move. Thinks better of it maybe, because he stops with his mouth half-open and shakes his head. 

What Nacho is doing is not a power play; Nacho enjoys watching this mental dance as Jimmy scrambles to fill up the dead air. Jimmy doesn’t have a lot of experience with silence -- or if he does, he must fill it up with negative assumptions. Jimmy twists in the wind, eyes on the spot where Nacho’s hands would be if they weren't resting on his thighs, then to Nacho’s eyes, then -- again, short, almost as imperceptible as his frown -- down to Nacho’s lips. 

That’s when Nacho breaks. He pushes a mug of coffee across the table. 

“Here.”

Jimmy frowns and cocks his head, thoughtful. 

“That’s not -- you’re not gonna \-- I mean, don’t you --” 

“I’ll order another,” Nacho says, even. He lets himself smile, raises an eyebrow. “You need it more than me.” 

Jimmy doesn’t deny it as he swipes the side of his face with the back of his hand and accepts the black coffee, gives Nacho a little salute with it, and takes a long swallow. He shuts his eyes and draws a breath before placing the mug back down and looking at Nacho. 

Jimmy is centered now and the mental dance must be over. 

“So. Were you just asking me out for a cup of coffee or do we have business?” 

Nacho smiles but lets the joke hang there and Jimmy gestures with his palms up.

“Hey, I wouldn’t say no to either -- just need to know if the clock’s running.” 

“We’ve got a problem,” Nacho says, still smiling.

\---

Nacho walks him through it: his father’s upholstery business has been in the same spot for a long, long time. People know him -- know where to find him. It is a good building for the business -- and yes, if Nacho were running things, he would have found a way to buy the place years ago. 

But he is not. And they have not. 

These are the types of vulnerabilities that his father leaves himself open to, and these are the types of situations that Nacho has to fix.

Because the landlord is edging them out. The landlord -- who doesn’t even live here, just sits five states away accepting their check every month -- has a new tenant offering him double what they’re paying now. 

The lease is up. 

But the lease had been up so many times before that. It had always been a matter of signing the new lease, faxing it over, done deal with no change in terms. It had been a good thing. And now the good thing is over and they have 15 days to pack up 15 years of business. 

Nacho intercepted the letter before his father saw it. Time is of the essence.

“I can’t _make_ the guy renew your lease,” Jimmy says, serious. “I would’ve wagered that type of _persuasion_ is more up your alley.” 

He says so much with the way he rolls the word “persuasion” over his tongue that frankly Nacho is a little impressed. The word says to him, “You’re a frightening criminal and I absolutely respect that.” 

“Nothing illegal,” Nacho says. “This is my father, understand?”

Jimmy presses his lips into a line and stares at a point just past his now empty cup of coffee. Nacho could have come unannounced to Jimmy’s office, home, whatever that sorry broom closet actually is to him -- but he had not. 

He had set an appointment. He needs Jimmy to be a real lawyer now. He needs someone who can game the system in a way that will not drag his family into an underworld they should never have to deal with. 

“This isn’t exactly my area of expertise,” Jimmy says, his voice just on the edge of a whine. “I did a brain dump of all the real estate law right after the bar.”

Nacho thinks through what he needs to say next to get this done. Threats had been effective in the past, but he needs Jimmy fresh and thinking to do this -- and they’re past that point now, anyway. 

“I know you’re a good lawyer, McGill,” Nacho says, keeping his voice neutral. “I need you to find something.” 

“Find what?”

Nacho shrugs. He places his hands above the table and holds Jimmy’s gaze.

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t need your help,” he admits. 

Jimmy seems to chew on that, hitching his chin a little and blinking. It’s a power shift to admit that Nacho _needs_ this from him, though it doesn’t occur to him until he hears himself say it. There’s nothing nefarious here. Nacho is trying to navigate the legal system, he’s trying to do it above the table, and he’s smart enough to admit when he’s out of his depth.

“I need you,” Nacho says again, and his posture goes a little slack at the admission. Maybe another man would never let the lawyer know that he is needed or feel that he is irreplaceable. But it’s good for Jimmy to know -- to be motivated by something other than fear. The expression in Jimmy’s eyes gives a silent confirmation that this is understood, that he’s not going to let Nacho down. 

“Can you take me to the property?”

\---

They meet after dark, but not so late that it will seem suspicious if anyone watches them pull up. There will be questions if his father finds out. Nacho wouldn’t keep a secret like this if asked directly, but his father’s ignorance of the things that Nacho does to protect him has always felt like a wide, cool river. He doesn’t want his father wading in if he doesn’t need to. 

Nacho arrives early to open the gate and the smaller of the two bays. When Jimmy pulls up in his laughable little clown car with mismatched panels, Nacho directs him to park it inside. If someone wants to know why they’re there, this is simply a consultation arranged after hours as a favor to a friend. The cover is hardly a stretch -- Lord knows the miserable vehicle could use some professional attention, inside and out.

Jimmy emerges from the car with a legal pad wearing the same clothes from this morning, shirt gone wrinkled, hair a little flat across his forehead. Nacho has kept his uniform on. He closes the bay door. 

Jimmy is uncharacteristically silent, already slinging his gaze around the corners of the garage.

“There’s one more bay there,” Nacho says, gesturing even though Jimmy’s eyes aren’t on him. “Then the front office, sewing room, bathroom, breakroom. You’ve got free reign to look around. I’ve got a ledger to look at,” Nacho says. 

Jimmy nods. He’s staring at one corner of the ceiling, tilting his head. Nacho waits, resisting the urge to look at whatever has caught the lawyer’s attention.

“I’ll be up front if you need me,” Nacho says, finally. 

Jimmy’s eyebrows are knit and he’s working his tongue around in his mouth. He nods but doesn’t stop looking around. 

Nacho can’t get a read on whatever this is. As he crosses towards the office, Nacho stops and puts a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. He draws a breath but doesn’t recoil -- and for the first time since Nacho has met him, Jimmy’s posture straightens out. For the first time, Nacho is actually _aware_ that the lawyer is two or three inches taller than him. 

Nacho holds eye contact with him, appreciating the fact that the other man isn’t shrinking away -- and he can’t help the half-smile that slides across his face at the intense look that Jimmy returns. 

He is keen and sharp where before the man had been scattered. _Good_. 

Nacho nods, drops the hand from his shoulder, and heads away to leave him to his investigation. 

\---

“That crack across the back wall of the big bay -- that ever given you a problem?”

Nacho doesn’t jump, but he goes a little wild-eyed. He didn’t realize the lawyer was standing behind him -- hadn’t heard him come into the office at all. 

“No. Why?”

Nacho slings a look over his shoulder. He’s not comfortable having someone stand behind him, but Jimmy enters quickly to stand across the counter from him. 

“Do you remember if it was there when Papa Varga moved in?” 

“No,” Nacho says. “I can’t… well --” 

Nacho walks out into the room and Jimmy follows him. There’s a framed photo on the wall in the waiting area, sun-bleached but blown up big enough that you can still see all the details. There are three figures smiling wide, arms linked, standing against the back wall of the big second bay. It’s a snapshot his dad had insisted on the first morning they were open in the new shop. The crack is faintly visible behind them.

He taps a fingertip against the glass and Jimmy leans in, peering. 

“The crack was there,” Nacho says. 

“The crack was _there_ and you have a _picture_ of it,” Jimmy says, smiling for the first time since he’s arrived, clapping his hands on Nacho’s arms, back to the manic energy he’s come to expect. “Oh, I could kiss you.” 

Nacho has a rejoinder but Jimmy turns away from him quickly, leaning back in.

“Is this… oh my _God_ , _tell_ me this is you?” 

It _is_ him, 14 and flanked by his parents, scrappy beard and skinny legs and a shaggy head of hair. He says nothing, and Jimmy looks absolutely _full_ of himself at the discovery. 

“You were a cute little nacho chip,” Jimmy says. “Thank goodness you grew into the goatee, right?”

“And the crack?” Nacho says through tight jaws. Nacho is many things; _cute_ is not one of them. 

“Oh, I have a list a mile long of building code violations that would make any number of ABQ bureaucrats cream their shorts -- but the big bad crack is the piece de resistance.” 

“What do violations help?” 

“I need one -- maybe two -- days to line these up with actual codes, but unless your landlord wants to sink more cash into this place than the land is worth to start out with, he’s not gonna be renting it to anybody new.” 

“And that’s not going to shut us down?” 

Jimmy smiles and hitches one shoulder. This is Jimmy in his element, Nacho realizes. He looks younger, elated.

“We’re going to show him that keeping your pops here indefinitely is a good thing,” Jimmy says, smug. “Nobody goes to the city, and Johnny Landlord keeps lining his pockets with your sweet, always-on-time rent checks -- Which!” 

And Jimmy cuts himself off here, closing his mouth abruptly and doing some sort of mental arithmetic. Finally he offers his palms out and continues. 

“We should really get him to knock down those payments,” Jimmy says. “You’re doing him a _favor_ by staying a tenant.” 

“No,” Nacho says. “My father can’t know we’re even having this conversation. Nothing changes.” 

Jimmy nods deeply and extends a hand as if to say that he’s gotten the message loud and clear. 

“You’re the boss,” he says in deference. “Hell of a son who doesn’t even want to be the hero for saving the family business.” 

“You have writing on a notebook and a family photo,” Nacho points out. “We haven’t fixed this yet.” 

Jimmy’s smile goes tight.

“We will.” 

\---

Three days later, Nacho gets a call from a number he recognizes. He’s running security for Tuco, but it’s a quiet night and he catches No Doze’s eye, gesturing to his vibrating phone. No Doze nods and Nacho steps away to take the call.

“Yes?” he says by way of hello.

“Nacho! I’ve got the good news you’ve been waiting for.” 

“The lease --”

“The new lease is ready for Papa Varga’s signature,” Jimmy says. “And I’m holding it right now in my hot little hands. You want me to drop it off somewhere?” 

“Stay put. I’ll be there in an hour.” 

“OK, I’m at my offi\--” 

He slaps the phone closed and strides back towards No Doze. 

Three days sitting on this reality had been three days too many. Nacho has lived with secrets before -- and working with Tuco for any amount of time and keeping your skin necessitates a cool demeanor. Anxiety isn’t something that Nacho allows himself to indulge in -- but things are different when it comes to family. He’d felt like cracked earth during a drought, not knowing if he should prepare for rain or a forest fire.

“Gotta take off,” he says. No Doze doesn’t argue -- they know where to find Nacho if he’s needed, and they know he wouldn’t buzz off if it wasn’t something serious. 

Nacho has two stops to make before he sees Jimmy. 

\---

An hour later, Nacho taps a knuckle on the glass of the dark nail salon. 

It takes Jimmy a minute to get up to the front, and when he emerges, he’s holding the folded lease, brandishing it in the air as he smiles and walks up. He lets Nacho in, presses the document into his hand, and locks the door behind them. Nacho tries to adjust to the smell of acetone and hair perm solution.

“This is it?” Nacho says, looking down at the paper. He tucks the bottle he’s carrying under his arm to use both hands, holding the lease up in the dim light. 

“Your man talked a big game but he folded like a dollar store lawn chair when the fax of violations came through,” Jimmy says, smiling. He bounces on the balls of his feet as Nacho examines the paper. 

“This is for a ten-year term,” Nacho says after a moment. He frowns and hitches his chin at Jimmy -- but this time the lawyer doesn’t back away. His face is cut by a shadow thrown through the big plate glass windows, and a fish tank bubbles somewhere further into the salon. He steps closer to Nacho, and when he starts to gesture, he’s so close it almost feels like he’s about to take Nacho by the front of the shirt. 

“You could do better than a year-to-year lease,” Jimmy says. “And the way this is worded, your dad can break the lease any time he wants with 30 days’ notice. It means more security, Nacho. So we won’t have to be doing this again next year.” 

Jimmy hitches his eyebrows and looks him in the face, expectant. It’s direct disobedience -- Nacho hadn’t wanted anything to change and he’d been explicit about that -- but the lawyer is right. It _is_ a better deal. And he’s got time to come up with an explanation for his father that isn’t a lie. 

Nacho doesn’t smile. He folds the lease and tucks it into his jacket pocket. Jimmy’s face falls. 

“Here,” Nacho says. He produces an envelope with the unmistakable thickness and weight of cash, and holds it out with a brown bag. 

Jimmy stares at the offerings but doesn’t take them, holding up a cautioning hand and searching Nacho’s face. 

“So -- you’re not mad, you’ll sign the lease?” 

“You did good, Jimmy,” Nacho says, gently, gesturing a little with his hands full. “Ten years is good.” 

With a crooked smile, the man now accepts the packages.

“What’s all this?” 

Nacho doesn’t bother explaining the cash -- they hadn’t agreed on a fee, but he’d loaded enough bills into the envelope to pay for the lawyer’s time five or six times over. And once Jimmy untucks the bottle of tequila from its bag, that doesn’t need an explanation either. 

Jimmy nods deeply and fixes him with a smile, hitching the bottle. 

“To ten more successful, _legal_ years for A to Z Fine Upholstery?” 

“Yeah,” Nacho says, letting himself smile now. 

“Well let’s get crackin,” Jimmy says, leading the way back to his office.

\---

Tucked into the little office, Jimmy pours generous shots into plastic cups meant for cucumber water. It’s a nice bottle of tequila -- not overboard, but smooth enough without a mixer to be dangerous. They put the cups together with an impotent little “dnk!” sound before throwing them back, and Nacho watches Jimmy purse his lips and draw a deep breath. 

There is a moment of easy, smiling silence between the two of them in that odd space between the first shot passing their lips and the time it takes that alcohol to kick in. 

Nacho remembers the first time he’d come to Jimmy’s office, and how the man had been nervous and fumbling behind his own desk. He’s never met someone who is at the same time so adept and so oblivious to their own talent when faced with the slightest hint of danger. 

Tuco intimidates with knives and thugs and behavior like a landmine. Nacho has learned from it -- gleaned what little he can from the techniques that work for Tuco. Nacho has cultivated his own aura of intimidation: quiet, sharp, effective. 

“I should’ve patched you in for a conference call,” Jimmy says, interrupting his train of thought. “I’m sure it would’ve been gratifying listening to your asshole landlord fall all over himself, trying to apologize to your asshole lawyer.” 

Nacho snorts. 

“I would’ve like that,” he says. “I’m sure he was shitting his pants -- you talk big when you’re not afraid of getting your ass beat in. You did the right thing for us.”

Predictably, Jimmy seems to get two inches taller from the praise.

“A worthy cause,” Jimmy says, bowing a little.

“I feel like I can take a breath now,” Nacho says -- and it’s true. He feels light and empty and _better_ , like a hard knot is uncoiling in his chest. “Thank you.” 

Nacho has seen many types of power and learned from them all. The power that comes with physical presence, the power that comes from money, and the power that comes from violence. Jimmy is smart and he doesn’t shy away from the gray areas of life -- and watching him now, all blue eyes and loose tie, Nacho thinks that Jimmy could be powerful if he would abandon these things that keep him weak. 

Fear. Laws. 

Nacho is about to say something to this effect when something stops him, and the first shot is most definitely kicking in. It’s a talk he wants to have with Jimmy, but it will wait for another time. They’re still standing there and Jimmy is tilting another shot into their cups on the desk, looking at him with raised eyebrows. 

“Stay a minute,” Jimmy suggests. Nacho puffs a short sigh but he takes the cup when it’s offered. 

_ Laws are for people who aren’t as smart as us, _ Nacho thinks -- really _thinks_ this at Jimmy, as if he could transmit the knowledge without opening his mouth. He eyes the liquor. 

“Hey, clients are always welcomed to crash on the couch,” Jimmy says. 

“I hold my liquor fine,” Nacho says. He hoists it and they both take the second shot, tapping the cups back on the desk with noises that would be more satisfying with real glasses. 

Jimmy swallows hard, and as he begins to speak this time, there’s a look on his face like he already regrets what he’s about to say. 

“Stay anyway.” 

Nacho narrows his eyes at Jimmy -- and it’s happening again, he’s stepping closer and gesturing -- and this time it isn’t a missed trajectory. He has Nacho’s shirt in his hand, not pulling him but just holding him steady, and he closes the distance between them and kisses him. 

The world tilts on its axis and Nacho is glad for the steadying hand.

There is just a beat like that, Nacho’s hands nowhere, the surprise on his face, the tension in his lips and forehead just barely beginning to soften to something else, Jimmy’s breath hot with the taste of high-proof tequila, their spines parallel and strange, the office suddenly far away -- and then Jimmy is stepping back, retreating, an apology already on this face. 

Nacho squeezes his eyes shut and massages his forehead with his forefinger and thumb. The buzz has his mind working slower than it ought to be as he attempts to process this new scenario in which his lawyer is apparently so _not_ scared of him that he’s now _coming onto him_. 

When he opens his eyes, Jimmy is deflated, hunched on the edge of his desk. 

“I might’ve… been drinking before you got here and --” 

“ _Really_ , Jimmy?” 

He holds up his hands like Nacho is about to strike him. Nacho’s mind is shifting gears at a breakneck pace.

“I’m sorry,” Jimmy says seriously. Nacho raises an eyebrow, doesn’t fight his smile, and steps back into his personal space.

“ _Are_ you sorry?” 

Jimmy’s not breathing. He won’t meet Nacho’s eyes, and he’s gripping the edge of the desk now. The silence is too potent and he knows better than to lie. 

“No,” Jimmy says, dry, sounding exhausted. 

Nacho has to stoop a little to catch Jimmy’s mouth. This time is much better, and Nacho takes his time to savor it: the startled noise he makes into Nacho’s lips, the way he goes pliant and soft after a moment, the taste of his mouth as he opens and moves and leans into Nacho’s hand as it finds its way to Jimmy’s neck. Nacho discovers a deep wanting there, and just as he felt Jimmy was gaining equal footing, it’s all changed again. 

He knows he could have this man without a second thought and with nothing given in return. In the same way that Jimmy can communicate a whole speech with the wave of one hand or an entire apology with the inflection of two words, with this kiss, Jimmy tells him everything Nacho could want to know, tells him that he could take whatever he wants from Jimmy, take too much from him probably, fair or not, and that Jimmy would give it to him willingly, enthusiastically. 

It’s dizzying and it makes Nacho feel like he is _more_ than he was just a moment before.  Dangerous and heady. They break softly and Jimmy draws a quiet, ragged breath. 

“I’m not sorry, either,” Nacho says. He drops the hand from Jimmy’s neck and moves to the door, turning at the hip to look back at him. Jimmy stays where he is, looking like he’s been rejected -- but there’s no surging impulse inside Nacho to correct that assumption. 

There is time sprawling out ahead of them, as endless as the desert. He turns the knob.

“I’ll be in touch,” he says, not bothering to shut the door behind him.

 


End file.
